Back From the Holy Land
by Gwenwhyfar
Summary: A/N: Discontinued. Post season 2. How do Much, John, Allan and Robin cope with their return to Sherwood...and the introduction of a jolly clergyman?
1. Back from the Holy Land

Disclaimer: Robin Hood is owned by the BBC and Tiger Aspect. All the copyrights associated with Robin Hood belong to them. Only Anne, Emma, and my version of Tuck belong to moi... no profit is being earned...etc. etc. etc.

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**Chapter 1**

**Back from the Holy Land**

Their journey back had been fast, and largely silent.

Allan had tried to break the awkwardness every once in a while with a quip about the weather or the scenery, but even Much had realised the need for silence, and the generally echoed "Shut up!" had been heard only once; he had been unable to contain himself, and had gone off on a rant about how he was dead sick of not being able to understand a word anyone was saying.

Once back in England the gang had found themselves drawn back to Sherwood and Nottingham. This despite the fact that Robin had told them all, repeatedly, that they shouldn't feel obligated to return with him, that they were free to go and do as they pleased.

He had half expected at least John and Allan to take him up on the offer. John to go and live somewhere nearer Alice and his son, which he knew he so longed to do, and Allan, well, to go somewhere other than Nottingham and be Allan. The only one he knew his silent pleading would have no effect on was Much, who eyed him worryingly every so often, always on the lookout for their next meal, making sure Robin ate what was offered to him.

"You know, I still do not understand how Djaq and Will could have stayed behind. It's not as though the Saracens don't have carpenters of their own. Plus, now who's going to stitch us up when we get into trouble with the Sher-"

He stopped mid-sentence as he noticed John glaring at him.

"I'll go and see about some horses, shall I?" Not waiting for an answer, Much lifted himself off the ground and disappeared round the bend of the road where they had collapsed, relieved to have finally made it to England.

Robin shot Allan a glance.

"Yeah. I'll go and make sure he doesn't get himself into any trouble."

"Coming from you?" John enquired, raising an eyebrow.

Allan shrugged, biting his lip as he kicked a loose piece of dirt with the toe of one of his boots. He turned on his heels and went off after Much.

Not knowing where to look, or how to keep his hands occupied, John started examining his staff in detail.

"We should be home by the end of the week. If Much manages to organise a pair of horses," Robin stated. Sensing the big man's discomfort.

"Hmmmm."

---

As they made their way towards Sherwood, Robin was grateful Much had been able to secure three horses.

John balanced atop his disproportionately small workhorse, as Much and Allan shared a rather tired-looking brown nag, to the common annoyance of both. Neither had the audacity to ask Robin whether they could ride with him.

At least the camp Will had so expertly constructed for them had not fallen victim to the Sheriff 's men. As John tackled up the gate, their belongings seemed to be in largely the same state as when they had left.

"I'll go and see if I can find something for dinner," Much offered, as he slid off the back of the horse he and Allan had been sharing since Portsmouth.

No response.

"Right," he mumbled, traipsing off into the forest.

John and Allan went about checking whether whatever few belongings they had were still scattered about their cots, while Robin stood at the entrance to the camp, clenching the reigns of his horse.

"Well, looks like pretty much everything's still 'ere," Allan announced, as he stepped out of the hiding-place. "I can take that," he gestured at the mare.

"Right."

Allan took the reigns from Robin, and went off to tie up the horse.

---

The four men settled into their new routine rather easily. Much would concern himself with supper. Allan or John went out hunting for him, while he reorganised everyone's belongings, making sure he gathered up Djaq and Will's possessions in bundles which would be easy enough to either throw out, or hand over, if the time came.

On one of his first days back, Allan had ventured into Locksley, at the request of Much, who wanted to be able to give Robin some good news about the villagers of his old estate.

He'd tried to be discreet about his visit, which hadn't prevented him from taking a mug of ale with the young woman who'd recognised him from one of his earlier visits, accompanying Robin on one his many food drops.

Emma.

When she'd asked him if there was any word of Master Robin, he'd been quick to answer; "We've just returned from the Holy Land. Saved King Richard we did."

The offered drink naturally progressed into a more discreetly offered bed for the night. Allan was quick to accept. As he gulped down his ale, he noticed a little boy playing with a wooden horse behind the curtain which separated this room from the next.

He looked at the woman seated across the table from him, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

"Yours?" He enquired, furrowing his brow as he tried to make out her age.

"Yes. Does that bother you?"

He looked down into his empty mug. "Nah."

He realised he had to ask the obvious.

"No husband though?"

She chuckled. "That's the kind of person you take me for?"

His quizzical stare must have made her feel the need to justify herself.

"He died two years ago. Cart accident. He was taking our grain to market, cart got stuck. He was trying to push it out of the ditch when it toppled over on him."

"I'm sorry." He felt strangely uncomfortable.

She got up and pulled him from his chair, leading him into the bedroom.

"It's not your fault."

---

With Allan away God knew where, Much poring over his stew and Robin perched on his cot, twirling the ring on his finger over and over again, John was beginning to feel like a third wheel.

He picked up his staff and lumbered off into the woods, not bothering to announce his departure, or when he'd be back.

Alone with his thoughts his mind automatically drifted to Alice and little John. Luke. He didn't like thinking about this other man living his life, teaching his son how to ride, sleeping beside his wife at night. He was grateful that at least there was someone…although this didn't take away the bitterness of having to live with the consequences of being outlawed.

He swung his staff at the nearest tree with all his might, hearing its wood splinter as the oak groaned.

He panted from the exertion. The journey to Palestine had taken more out of him than he'd expected. He was tired. Exhausted. Even the day-to-day routine of sleeping, eating, hunting and practising with his staff seemed to drain him. He wasn't sure whether the others felt the same.

They barely spoke.

---

_Follow the King's orders. Fight for England, your country. You are surrounded by good men, they will follow you._

_For every man there is a purpose which he sets up in his life. Let yours be the doing of all good deeds._ The sentence from the Koran reverberated in his mind.

"Do those deeds in my name. You are my representatives in England. You are King Richard," the King had told him, as he'd left for home.

The thoughts whirling 'round in Robin's head painted a stark contrast with the turmoil in his heart.

Marian.

_I love you, my husband._

Her words echoed.

She'd been so stubborn for so long after he had returned from the Holy Land the first time.

_You keep fighting for me, Robin. You promise me you'll keep fighting._

His main thought on the gang's way back had been 'this time is different'; she will not be there.

Last time he had at least been able to entertain the hope that she would still be at Knighton Hall, waiting for him with open arms, ready to accept him back into her life.

With both Sir Edward and Marian gone, Knighton stood empty. Another prize loot for the Sheriff and Gisborne.

He tried as best he could to keep his thoughts of Gisborne and of Marian separate. He could not defile her memory with the hatred which coursed through his veins when he pictured Gisborne and Vaysey riding away from that gut-wrenching scene in the desert.

A village he would never know the name of.

So much pain it seemed impossible to bear.

He stared at his hands as he spun round the ring they had waited for the last possible moment to exchange.

If only she'd taken him back, straight away. They would have had so much more time together.

He stopped twisting the ring as a pang of guilt shot through him. How could he be blaming her for this?

"I have something I need to do," he mumbled.

Much looked up from his cooking, surprise written across his face.

"I…I…I'll make sure supper's ready by the time you're back." He turned his attention back to the pot over the fire.

Robin picked up his sword and swung it over his shoulder. He threw a last glance towards Much who stood with two pots of spices in his hand, apparently trying to decide which one would contribute most to the stew's edibility, and smiled.

---

Sir Edward's grave was well kept. It looked as though someone had been making sure the weeds were removed; a bunch of fresh snow-bells lay tied up on the black earth.

Robin stood next to the grave, unable to look at it for too long, and stared over the ridge where the Lord of Knighton Hall had been buried, towards Nottingham Castle. His hands trembled, as he clenched them into fists in an attempt to steady himself.

"I swear, Edward. I swear he _will _pay," he managed, through gritted teeth.

He fell to his knees. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I could not protect her. I am sorry I made it impossible for her to just be... I…" He choked on his words.

He couldn't hold back his grief as his eyes pooled over and his vision blurred. Unclenching his fists, he dug his fingers deep into the ground.

---

Much had been surprised to hear Robin speak. More words than he'd managed all week; an entire sentence.

He'd discreetly tried avert his gaze, for fear his awkward stare would elicit some sort of justification on Robin's part.

Quickly turning back to his stew he'd pretended to busy himself with finding the right blend of spices in an attempt to make tonight's dish a little more palatable.

Once Robin had cleared out of sight he'd set the two pots back down. He barely dared to breathe; the forest was so quiet.

Somewhere far off he heard the faint creaking of wood as a cart made its way towards Nottingham. Travelers on the North road.

He'd begun to wonder when they'd be getting back to work. Allan had hinted a few times that he'd heard the townspeople of Locksley mention a delivery coming into Nottingham. Robin had mumbled something in acknowledgement, and had gotten back to whatever it was he had been doing. Nothing. Twirling that bloody ring.

"I help save the King. Twice. And I'm still stuck here making supper and cleaning up after everyone. Bloody den-mother." Much couldn't help but express his resentment towards his ever-constant duties.

"Twice!" He exclaimed.

"But no. No, no. Much will see to the cooking. Much'll make sure everyone's got a hot meal. Much'll worry about Robin, and Allan, and John. Much'll make sure nobody tries to off himself. Bloody…" he cut himself short.

"Shut up," he whispered. Wishing that someone would actually start saying that again. Wishing that he'd give them reason to. "Shut up, Much," he whispered.

Marian.

He could not get the image of her cold body, his master knelt over her, out of his mind. It was more vivid even than the horrible, mangled corpses they had encountered during their first trip to the Holy Land.

Will and Djaq. It wasn't so much that he missed them per se, he missed the gang. The way the group used to just be, natural, almost like a living breathing person in itself.

Whole.

_That's the word!_, he realised as it popped into his mind.

The gang resembled a vase which a careless child had dropped onto the kitchen floor, shattered into tiny pieces. No matter how many pieces you retrieve, there's always one or two missing. The child, in a desperate attempt to avoid its mother's scorn, will try to reshape the vase out of the bits that are left, twisting and turning the leftover pieces 'round in its hands, forcing them together.

It was an unsatisfactory metaphor, but he'd make do with it for now.

---

John returned about the same time Allan made his way into camp.

"You run into trouble, or what?" Allan asked, eyeing John's broken staff.

"No," He answered.

"Right then. Let me guess…stew for supper?" He turned to Much who'd stopped stirring as the two had jolted him out of his daydreaming.

"Fine. Tomorrow you cook! I spend all my time-,"

"Alright, alright. Just asking. I happen to like stew," Allan interrupted, not wanting to get stuck with cooking duty, as he was pretty sure they'd be going hungry if it were left to him. "It's not stew-surprise though, right? Like yesterday?"

Much shot him a glare.

"Where's Robin?" John interjected.

"He had to go do something," Much stated, as he ladled the food, which _was_ actually pretty much yesterday's stew-surprise with a few extra herbs tossed in for good measure, onto the plates.

"You think we should wait?" Allan enquired, as Much handed him his supper.

"I think we can start without him," Much went on to hand John, who had gently leaned his staff against their improvised latrine, his food. "He sounded as though he might be a while."

"He's not gone off to do something stupid has he?" John managed between bites. He eyed the concoction suspiciously, as he picked a thready-piece of meat from between his teeth. Better than yesterday, at least.

"I don't know, do I? Does that seem like something I should've asked? Oh, master, I'm so glad you've told me you need to go and do something, you know how I worry," Much gestured with his hands, as he attempted the parody of himself which he knew had been a cause for great entertainment in the camp when he'd walked in on Allan performing his version for Djaq after they'd rescued her from a life of slave-labour in the mines.

"…Just to be sure, you're not going to go and do anything stupid, are you?!" He yelled the last sentence as the two looked up at him from their plates of food.

"Really John? Do you _really _think I should've asked?!"

"Maybe not."

"Asked what?" Robin queried, as he stepped in amongst the gang, startled by his sudden reappearance.

"Nothing!" Much managed in a shrill voice. "Nothing, master."

"Master? Still, Much?"

"Sorry. Old habits…" He ladled some more stew onto a plate and handed it to Robin, who eyed it with the same trepidation as Allan and John had.

"It's not stew-surprise," Allan stated. "It's actually pretty decent."

Robin looked from a bewildered Much to Allan, and then to John, who shrugged.

As the four of them looked at each other Robin broke into a grin, the smile finally reaching the corners of his eyes, Much noted. The grin turned into a chuckle, and a broad smile spread across Allan's face.

"What?" Much asked as he too was finding it difficult to contain a smile. It was John who broke the silence next with a huge bout of loud laughter as he set down his plate.

"Stew…sur…prise," he managed to huff out, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"John?!" Much's eyes widened in feigned effrontery, while he was secretly finding it difficult not to join in with the big man's infectious laugh.

"Big Bear!" Robin laughed out in between breaths, which set both Much and John off again.

Allan spit out half the spoonful he had just stuck in his mouth. "Big Bear?"

John rolled over sideways, his huge body shaking as he gripped his stomach.

"Am I missing something…?"

"The…the…queen…mother…she…" He couldn't finish the sentence as another bout of laughter hit.

Allan, while not quite being able to reconcile ´big bear´ with ´queen mother´ found it impossible not to laugh as the ever-stoic Little John rolled on the ground in a fit, getting leaves and twigs stuck in his beard and lanky hair as he did so.

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To be continued...Tuck will be making an appearance as of the next chapter, and the gang will be getting 'back to work', so to say. 

Let me know what you think...:)


	2. This is an Ambush!

Bit of a short chapter, I'm sorry. I've got the general gist of it figured, just need to iron out the details. Please review and let me know what you think. I'm not quite sure if I've got the gang's characterization right, but it's an ongoing learning process...hopefully with the help of some insightful input from those of you who read my story.

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**Chapter 2**

**This is an Ambush**

"This…is an ambush!"

The statement came out of the apparent blue for the driver of the cart who'd stopped to relieve himself against a tree by the side of the road.

He'd been told not to take the route through Sherwood.

"Too risky," the innkeeper at Nettlestone had explained, "Robin Hood's back. There haven't been any raids over the past few weeks, but I've got a feeling he's gearing up for something big."

"Well, if it's big he's after, he'll most likely leave me alone then, won't he? Unless he's judging by the size of my belly!" The portly man had chuckled, patting his stomach and cleaning his plate with the piece of bread he'd been saving for just that purpose.

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"Should've listened…" he hummed to himself in a singsong voice, "always listen."

"What was that?" A rather ordinary looking man stepped out of the woods, sword in hand.

Somehow, Tuck had imagined the infamous Robin Hood being slightly taller, broad-shouldered, impressive. Not so the man peering at him with a quizzically raised eyebrow as he went about straightening his habit.

Only now did the intruder seem to realize the rather religious nature of this encounter.

"Ah."

He tentatively lowered his sword.

"Robin!" He yelled over his shoulder.

"Well, well. What have we here? On your way to Nottingham? Brother?"

A slightly taller man stepped out from behind the first. Still rather plain looking for the self-proclaimed defender of the poor, Tuck mused.

The door of his wagon swung open. A girl in a tatty dress clambered out over the piled-up belongings stacked in the back.

"You about done? I'm getting dead tired of sitting back here, don't you think it's my-," she paused, midway between patting the dust off her dress and balancing on one leg as she simultaneously tried to pick something out of the bottom of her boot with her free hand.

She flushed red and Tuck noticed her breathing quicken.

"It's alright, Anne." He held out his hand to her. "Come meet Robin Hood."

She moved forward, eying the two strangers, as well as the tree-line, as she came over and stood, half sheltered, behind the portly clergyman.

"Tuck."

He decided it would be best to ignore the earlier threat yelled at him from the bushes, and approach the situation afresh, reaching out a hand in friendship.

The second man looked him over, apparently judging the twosome as posing no real danger, and took the friars hand.

"Robin of Locksley."

"You don't say." The broad, pink face broke into a smile.

Not letting go of his hand the Lord of Locksley yelled: "Allan, John. Check the wagon!"

Two others made their way out of the forest, which both Tuck and Anne had been scanning suspiciously since the interruption.

One was reddish blond. Still not very tall, to Tuck's taste.

The other, however, now he _was _impressive; the huge man lumbered out of the forest, grizzly black hair covering most of his face, carrying a wooden staff, wrapped round the middle with what looked like a piece of leather.

"Mostly food, ale, clothing…some spices. Blankets," he said, peering into the back of the wagon.

"Doesn't look like the friar will be setting up shop anytime soon," the shorter man added.

"Well then, next question is…who are you, and why are you here?" Robin let go of Tucks hand, freeing up his own so he could swing his bow over his shoulder.

------------------------

After the fresh sense of purpose he'd felt, finally using the sentence so familiar to him again, Robin wasn't sure whether he hadn't fallen too quickly for the friar's natural air of trustworthiness.

The words trick, fraud and trap flicked through his mind as he eyed the two strangers.

Their boots and the bottom of their cloaks were caked with mud and tattered round the edges. The rope that secured the large man's habit frayed at the ends. All implied a traveling existence.

"We're not looking for trouble. Take what you want and let us be on our way," the girl spoke up as she grabbed the friar's arm in an attempt to pull him a few steps back.

He didn't budge.

Instead, he turned to her and said softly, "It's alright Too-Short. I want to hear what he has to say. It's not as though we have anywhere else we need to be-"

"No destination?" Much interjected. "Nottingham, perhaps? Off to see the Sheriff?"

The girl glanced nervously back and forth between the two men.

"I go where I'm needed," Tuck declared, rather pompously. "Or wherever I can find a warm bed, a mug of ale, and a friendly face."

With that last statement, he wrapped his arm around the girl's shoulders and pulled her up next to him. "Not that I don't have one with me already," he beamed down at her.

She seemed to stiffen in his embrace for a second, after which she pushed him off and shot him a glare, tingeing red at the ears.

"Aw, cheers," she grumbled, positioning herself to the friar's left, folding her arms, scowling.

"Yeah," Allan mumbled, "friendly." He cocked an eyebrow at Robin.

"_You_ still haven't answered my question."

"Ah, yes, well. Thing is, you see. I tend to do the better part of my talking on the receiving end of a hot plate of food and-"

"-Wait. No, no. Let me guess," Much waived his hand at the friar, stopping him mid-sentence, "A mug of ale?"

"You're catching on," the big man grinned.

"Yes, well. I've been listening. Long enough to my liking." He turned toward Robin.

"Master, really. Can we either let them go, or _do_ something? We're going to sprout roots just standing here talking." He glanced at the pair, lowering his voice and leaning in. "He _is_ a clergyman. No matter what his appearance, or behavior, might suggest. Maybe we should just let them go."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Grab the cart. I will lead the way back to camp."

"What?!" Much and Allan chorused.

"Master, I really don't think-"

"Much." Robin grabbed his shoulders. "I want to hear what he has to say," and added, glancing at the two, "they look like they've been on the road long enough to be able to tell us exactly what has been happening in England, what the general sentiment amongst the populace is. If we are going to follow through on the King's wishes, restoring his country to him, not completely overrun by Prince John, the Black Knights and the Sheriff, we need to know."

"No. No, we don't!" He shook his head violently. "We already _know _everything. The people are poor and unhappy; the nobles are rich and, well, happy. It's not that complicated!"

"They are coming with us."

Robin headed off into the woods.

Much stood, wide-mouthed, as he watched the friar hike up his habit and head off after his Master.

The girl, displaying a similar expression of surprise, stuttered; "I…I'll ride with you."

She joined John on the cart, scooting as far away from him as she could.

John wasn't sure whether she just posessed the frail constitution he attributed to most women, or whether she was genuinely afraid that he'd ride off with their belongings.

Allan caught up with Robin as he made his way through the trees, trying to pick a trail he thought the wagon would be able to manage.

"Look. Not to put you out or anything, and I can be back before nightfall, but uhm…well…there's someplace I need to be."

Robin raised his eyebrows, not slowing his pace, as he looked at Allan.

"Okay, maybe not _need_ to be, but I promised."

"If you _need_ to go, then go." Stressing the word, just as Allan had. Although his version came off more as a reproach than a plea.

"Right. I'll be back before you know it."

"I think I know exactly when you'll be back, Allan," Robin grinned, his tone playful.

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If I'm being too slow in the progression of events, let me know. I've been accused of that once or twice before. Aside from that, hope to update soon. 


	3. Tuck it In

I just wanted to start this shindig by thanking KeepingAmused (yes, Will and Djaq will most definitely be making a reappearance, albeit a little later on in the story), SpiritOfSherwood (there's no stopping you! The more Tucks the merrier :) and bbcodec (Prince John, the Sheriff and Gisborne in one room, methinks, too good to pass up...) for their comments.

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**Chapter 3**

**Tuck it In**

The trek through Sherwood took longer than he'd expected.

His followers remained largely silent, aside from the occasional huff coming from Much's general direction and the creaking and groaning of the cart as John managed to manoeuvre in between the trees, which, today, seemed frustratingly close together.

As John pulled the horse to a halt, the girl quickly slipped off the seat next to him and made her way over to the puffing clergyman.

"You shouldn't exert yourself so," she whispered, grabbing hold of his arm.

"Per…fect…ly…fine," he managed, as he looked up. "I sincerely hope this is it."

"This is it," Robin said.

"Right. Now that we've got this over with. How were you planning on hiding a horse, and a cart, and two strangers we're not even sure we can trust-"

"Much! Exactly how were _you_ planning on finishing that sentence? In the middle of the forest? In amongst all these trees? Out here in the middle of nowhere, where we have been largely left alone by the Sheriff, Gisborne and the Black Knights since we've been back?"

"Well, I…No," he sighed. "You know, after all that's happened, I would've thought you'd have lost your ´always look on the bright side´ tendencies."

"If you are that worried about being found out, you can go and sweep over the tracks left by the cart." He tore a loose branch off one of the nearby trees and handed it to his oldest friend. "This should do."

Much snatched the branch from Robin's hand and turned on his heels, scowling at Anne and Tuck as he passed them, marching off into the woods.

"John, tie up the horse, would you? You two, come inside."

"Inside…?" The girl looked around, puzzled.

Robin rested his eyes on her apprehensive face and smiled. His hand felt out the lever protruding from the leaves and pulled it.

He'd been expecting wide eyes and gasps of amazement. He received a satisfactory response from Tuck, the girl however cocked her head and a grin spread across her face.

"Not surprised?" He asked.

"Impressed," she answered. The grin turned into a smile, and, as she realised he was looking, a blush.

"Well. In you go."

---------------------------------------

Anne had set Tuck down gently on a tree stump, while she herself sat cross-legged on the ground off to his left.

At the centre of their improvised semi-circle hung a black pot filled with something which smelled rather enticing to the large man who hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. It was now late afternoon.

The Lord of Sherwood, as Tuck had started calling Robin in his mind, lit the fire under the pot, and the tall man, John, lumbered in and sat down to Tucks right.

"Now," Robin stated as he sat himself down and left the pot to simmer, "to return to my earlier question. Who are you, where are you from and what are you doing _here_?"

Tuck took a deep breath.

"My name, you know. My story starts at Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire, where I lived until the Abbott found it time I took my prayers, and business, elsewhere…"

"You were expelled?"

"Why do I not find that surprising!" Much entered the scene, dragging the improvised broom behind him. He dropped it in a corner, and turned towards the group sitting rather comfortably round the fire. Hands on hips, he glowed smugly as he chuckled at the man in the grey robes. "Expelled…go figure."

"Yes," Tuck continued calmly. "I was expelled from the order. I…well, let's just say I was considered to have rather unorthodox ideas about doing God's work."

"Not to mention your unorthodox ideas about dealing with authority…," Anne mumbled, as she poked the ground with a twig she'd been fiddling with.

"Aha!" Much gestured excitedly, grateful to the girl for giving him an excuse to rant on. "See! We can't keep them here; he'll never be able to follow orders!"

"First of all, I think you're getting ahead of yourself. Secondly, I don't take orders from those who claim to be the representatives of God on earth, and then do everything in their power to shut God's people out." The friar exclaimed as he turned a deep red, tingeing purple even, round the ears.

He lifted himself up in one quick move, rather more lithely than Much had expected.

"They lock themselves away in their abbeys and churches, while the people fear not only for their lives, as they do not have the money to pay for their taxes, nor the bread to feed themselves, no; they must also fear for their souls! The closest these men of God come to their so-called flock is the weekly sermon on damnation, sin and the wrath of God which will sweep the nation and carry off their children if they do not contribute to the Holy War King Richard is fighting in Palestine!"

He took a few deep breaths and Much took a step back.

"I…I…didn't mean-"

"Contribute to the Holy War? Damned if they do, damned if they don't! Their only consolation being that if they let their children starve in order to pay their taxes so that King Richard may live to fight another day, they will at least be assured a place in God's Kingdom!" The friars hands trembled, and he'd turned a progressively deeper red as he spoke.

It was the gang's turn to sit wide-eyed, unable to speak. Anne sat quietly, still toying with the leaves in front of her. She'd heard his words so many times before, they no longer shocked her.

Much stood in front of Tuck, mouth ajar, as he felt behind him, looking for something in between the pots and jars of spices he kept stored on the cragged wooden shelf.

Unable to break the friar's stare, his hands finally found what he was searching for.

He grabbed hold of the jug of ale and held it out to the man in front of him.

"Well. If you're that easily swayed, I suppose I won't have to make such an effort next time!" Tuck chuckled, as he accepted the jug from Much and took a large swig.

"I'm not quite sure I like you," Much stated.

"Good. Otherwise this would get rather dull, rather quickly." Tuck slapped Much on the arm jovially, if a little too hard.

John got up and fished five mugs out of the tub where they'd been soaking in the gathered rainwater. He handed them out and sat back down.

Tuck took the cue, and made the rounds with the ale.

Much finally found himself a seat as well, between Anne and Robin.

"After I left the Abbey, I decided I'd be of more use to people on the road. I preach, but most importantly, I listen." He took a large gulp from his mug.

"Not to be rude or anything, but considering the fact you were expelled, doesn't that mean you-"

"Yes," Tuck interrupted. "I've lost all my ecclesiastical rights, so to say. Shouldn't even be wearing this," he tugged at his habit, "it's just so damned comfortable."

Anne snorted at his joke. She realised a split-second too late that she shouldn't have, as this turned the gang's attention to her.

"And you?" Robin enquired. "How did you two end up travelling together?" He looked from Anne to Tuck and back, curious as to their relationship, which seemed comfortable enough, if a little strained.

She flushed, shifting her weight a little.

She always struggled to match Tucks eloquence and suppress her natural desire to flee when put on the spot.

She shot a pleading glance at her friend, but found no support as he stared intently into his mug, a smile playing on his lips.

She looked past Much at Robin, deciding that ignoring the other men would be her best bet at keeping her voice steady.

"I…he's an old family friend," she gestured at Tuck. "When he was expelled he came to our home at Whitby, on the River Esk. My father took him in." She tried not to let any of the bitterness she still felt slip into her speech.

"James," Tuck chuckled. "Good man."

"He is," she shot at him.

"When he was forced to leave Whitby, Whitby Abbey has close ties with Fountains in Yorkshire and our Abbess wasn't too thrilled with the notion of Tuck riling up the locals," she explained, "my father asked me to go with him. Keep him out of trouble, so to say," she sighed and let her eyes drop. "That's what I've been trying to do, really. We've been on the road since May."

By Robin's calculations that meant they'd been travelling for over half a year.

He now also recognised the pendant she wore as a piece of polished jet the area around Whitby was famous for. It was tied to a leather strap round her neck.

She noticed him looking.

"From my father," she stated, rubbing the smooth stone between her fingers.

"James and I grew up together," Tuck relieved her. "When we were young we'd go fishing with James' father, and on the days the weather was too rough to head out, we'd spend the afternoon looking for jet along the river bank. If we found a couple of nice pieces, we were guaranteed a pint of ale down at the local tavern in the evening." He smiled at Anne, who'd returned to her ale as she held the stone in her other hand.

"I ended up joining the order and James traded in his father's profession for horses. Breeding," he added.

John raised an eyebrow as he wiped the froth from his last swig off his upper lip with his sleeve.

"Fisherman turned horse-breeder? How'd he pull that one off?"

"He came into some money," Tuck replied.

"He came into _your_ money," Anne explained, looking up, feeling the need to defend both her father and the man she'd promised him to look out for.

"He hasn't always led such a…humble…existence," she added, pointing at Tuck.

"So, you had money?" Much furrowed his brow.

"Yes," Tuck smiled, "I had money. I gave it to James when I entered the Abbey. Worldly belongings, you know. I think that's how I made my first religious miscalculation, the first of many. The Abbott was expecting me to turn over my fortune, when he realised he'd be getting a little under a third…well…lets just say his means of keeping me occupied during the day involved a lot of mucking out stables…"

"So you see, I couldn't really refuse when my father asked me to tag along and keep an eye out," Anne continued, the familiar story relaxing her in these unfamiliar surroundings.

"Ugh…," Much moaned. He got up and finally decided to take the lid off the pot which had been heating up while the group had been listening to the newcomers' stories. Stirring the stew, he noticed four pairs of eyes demanding an explanation.

"Oh, come on. Don't you two at least think all this sounds just a little too sweet to be true?" He waved the ladle at John and Robin.

"Stealing from the rich to give to the poor? Sacrificing every semblance of a normal life in order to defend a King who is not even here…? Now I don't know how much you've lost, if anything, but judging by the intermittent scowls, frowns, and awkward silences between the three of you, plus the fact that you're living in a…uhm…this…this hideout in the middle of the forest, leads me to believe the notion of self-sacrifice isn't exactly breaking news round here!" She'd gotten up mid-speech, gesticulating wildly as she'd searched for the right words to describe their camp.

Much noticed how she seemed to stutter a little in her excitement and smiled in recognition.

"Girl's got a point," John said.

"True."

"Right. Now that we have established we're all rather saintly, I propose we continue this in the morning. It's getting dark," Robin got up and positioned himself between Anne and Much. "Much, why don't you serve up some of that supper?" He gestured towards the open pot over the fire.

"I'll make sure they've got a place to sleep." John got up to rearrange the bunks which had belonged to Will and Djaq, wondering whether he'd ever get the chance to see their familiar faces again, realising he missed the pair more than he'd expected to.

They ate quickly and in silence, aside from the occasional murmur of approval as Tuck ladled in his supper.

"Sleep well," Robin nodded, as he got into his own bunk. He made sure he kept his sword within reach, Tuck noticed.

Anne kept her eyes open for as long as she could. The familiar rumbling sound of Tuck's snoring had such a hypnotising effect on her however, that she dozed off eventually.

--------------------------------------------------

Allan groaned as he rolled himself over under the familiarly rough sheets. He gently swung his arm round Emma's waist as she lay to his right, her back towards him.

He always slept this side, something to do with how she'd had things _before_. She'd once tried to explain, but their conversation had quickly drifted into hands on skin, and lips, and…well, needless to say.

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and roughed up his hair in an attempt to wake himself up. Forcing himself out of this simple, yet effective, sanctuary proved a challenge every time he spent the night.

He jolted out of his morning haze when he heard the loud clang of metal on stone. Pulling his arm off Emma, he quickly rolled onto his back, swiping up his sword from the floor.

"Wha-" Emma twitched as she felt Allan's side of the bed move.

"Shhh…," he hissed.

The kitchen beyond the small bedroom became deadly quiet. A shuffle of feet. Several curses not becoming one of the Sheriff's henchmen, let alone the eight-year old they were apparently coming from, echoed through the cottage.

The look on the face that appeared in the doorway pained Allan more than anything Gisborne's soldiers could have inflicted upon him.

The little boy stared into the bedroom, eyes wide.

Allan was unable to move. Sword still clutched in his left hand, he quickly pulled the sheets up around himself, and Emma, with his right.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot_, he thought to himself.

The boy turned and walked away.

_Idiot._

He threw on his clothes, picked the wooden tag off the small bedside table and slung it round his neck as he fastened his sword around his waist with his other hand.

Emma stretched out under the sheets but didn't wake. He left her there.

He didn't see the boy on the way out. Glad to avoid confrontation he hastened away from the cottage, stopping only once, at the edge of the forest, to look back.

As he made his way back to camp, the all-too-familiar feeling of emptiness set in.

"I hope to God Much has got breakfast going," he mumbled to himself, noticing the first sunlight of the day making its way down through the trees.

* * *

Just on a side note, Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire pops up in some of the old legend surrounding Tuck and Robin Hood and Whitby was randomly picked for Anne as I needed a place close to the sea…although it has been known for its jet for centuries... 


	4. To Nottingham?

Let me just thank all of you reading my story. I know it's not a 'let's jump straight into the action, and get things going' kind of thing, but I'm getting there...I just felt the incessant need to really set the scene before dropping back into the action we all know and love (plus the need to excuse myself for it ;))...

I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank whatsthefracas for the recent review. I'll do my best not to disappoint. Tuck's really taking shape in my mind, now I just need to get his personality across on paper...or the web, for that matter...

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**Chapter 4 **

**To Nottingham?**

Tuck rolled onto his back, his mind skimming through ways to make it off the cot with some sense of decorum. It wasn't easy. He groaned as he swung his feet over the side, levering himself upright at the same time.

Rubbing his eyes, he discovered his earlier hopes for breakfast had not been in vain.

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes as he tried to discern what would be stilling his hunger this morning.

Frustrated by the fact that there was a faint whiff of spice he couldn't identify, he opened his eyes, looking over to where he'd last seen Anne, curled up into a ball, arms wrapped 'round her legs, the way she usually slept. He was sure she hadn't gotten two winks.

Finding her bunk empty, though tidied, he surmised that she must have gone to check on the horse, and the contents of their waggon.

He was pleasantly surprised when, after making his way to where he remembered last night's supper being served, he spied Anne sitting cross-legged on the ground, peeling apples with a small pen-knife.

The thin man, Much, apparently the cook of Hood's troupe, stood stirring what he assumed was a large pot of porridge.

"Could you hand me some of those?" Much asked Anne, as he bent over the pot, stirring gently.

Anne placed the apples she had already peeled, which she was keeping safe in her lap, into Much's outstretched hand.

"Thank you."

"Sure," she replied, quietly continuing her work.

Tuck noted that she was trying hard not to break the peel, which draped like a ribbon around her wrist. She hadn't noticed him.

"Morning sweet-pea!" He bellowed, as he took a few steps forward and hoisted himself onto a tree stump.

She broke the peel, slicing her finger as she did so.

"Morning," she smiled up at him, sticking her thumb into her mouth.

"What she said," Much added without looking up.

She didn't _seem_ uncomfortable, Tuck thought, usually one of his greatest worries when he left her alone in unfamiliar company.

The entire scene looked rather blissfully quaint.

He took in Anne's expression as she adeptly sliced the apples into quarters before depositing them into her lap, making sure she kept her bleeding thumb out of the way.

He crossed his arms and sighed, feeling excluded from the apparent ease of the situation, and looked over at John and Robin who were still sleeping.

He sighed again, loudly, and missed the exchanged glance between Anne and Much, at which they both broke into a smile.

"Morning," Allan yawned.

The threesome jerked their heads 'round at the sound of the new arrival.

He casually leant in over Much's shoulder, cocking an eyebrow as he peered into the pot.

"Breakfast?"

"Problem?" Much retaliated.

"No, no. Just checking."

"Yes. Breakfast. Sit."

Tuck silently observed their interaction. He didn't expect any difficulties figuring out the group-dynamic.

"The funny one?" He asked, as Allan sat down, positioning himself on the stump across from him with enviable ease.

"Beg pardon?"

"_What _are you?" Tuck asked. "_He's_ the cook. Well…, den-mother. That one there, no explanation needed," he pointed at a waking Robin, ignoring the fact that Much had dropped his ladle into the pot and stood gaping at him, "then there's the sleeping giant over there, silent, but, supposedly, quite deadly if rubbed the wrong way. Now I'm just trying to place you." He crossed his arms and leant back, squinting as he studied Allan's expression.

Anne had stopped peeling as she looked from Tuck to Allan, who was visibly confused.

"You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"_You_ do," Tuck replied.

"I won't say I don't know my way around words."

"Hmm."

The response didn't seem to satisfy Allan.

"You jump to conclusions based on knowing people for what," Allan glanced questioningly at Much, "a little under a day?"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," Allan said decidedly, as he leant in.

"I'm not," Tuck chuckled as he unfolded his arms, also leaning forward he added, "and _that _would make _you _an incorrigible liar."

Allan tilted his head as he pointed the dagger he'd pulled from his boot in Tuck's general direction.

"I like you."

"_I_ don't!" Much grumbled.

"Good. Now that we've got that out of the way, let's eat." Tuck peered from Allan to Much, to Anne, who sat shaking her head in disapproval.

"Aw, come on," Allan held out his hands, "aren't you even going to tell me you like me?"

"After breakfast. Perhaps."

"Fair enough."

Robin and John had gotten up and Much served out the porridge.

-------------------------------

After finishing off his breakfast, Tuck took Anne aside, under the pretext of checking up on their cart and horse.

"You're being awfully obliging," Tuck said, examining her smile. The corners of her mouth evened out.

"I don't want to ruin this for you," she replied, "you like them, and they seem to like you. Well, aside from Much."

He touched her cheek, at which she flushed and backed away slightly.

"Oh come on. Let's not get all sentimental," she tried to brush off her discomfort, "we both know you've been craving somewhere to settle. This seems like a good place. They're good people."

"You base this conclusion on the fact that they've, up to now, given us a cot to sleep in, and breakfast?"

"It's more than most offer us, without pay."

"Without pay? I can offer much needed salvation, and you, well, a woman's comforting presence can hardly be substituted by a bow and arrow."

She chuckled.

"You didn't just call me a comforting presence…"

"I did. You are. Well, when you make the effort." He patted her arm amicably, still pondering why she had chosen to make that effort.

"Would you like to stay a while?" Her tone more an offer than a question.

"Would _you_?"

"Don't do that," she frowned, "just answer."

"Yes. Yes, I think I would," he sighed, "I guess that means I need to go have a little heart to heart with the 'fearless-but-conflicted' leader," he grinned, pinched her cheek, and headed back to camp.

"Of course I'm fine with staying…you really didn't need to ask," she mumbled to herself, folding her arms and poking the ground with the tip of her boot.

------------------------------------

"So. You have a good night then? Hmm?" Much enquired, as he gathered up the mess the others had left behind.

Only Allan was left, staring into the fire rather dejectedly.

"Yeah, fine," Allan replied.

"Something happen?"

Allan's spirits seemed at an all-time low.

"Nah," Allan tossed a twig into the fire, "anyways, shouldn't we be planning…well…something, anything? A raid? An ambush?" He quickly changed the subject.

"Because that worked out so well for us yesterday…?"

-------------------------

"John. I need you to keep an eye out," Robin spoke softly.

He'd taken John aside after seeing Tuck head off with Anne.

"Alright."

"Good. Much is too suspicious of them, or the friar at least, and Allan, well…" he glanced back at Allan and Much quibbling about something.

"I'll keep an eye out," John said.

"Thank you my friend." Robin clasped John's arm.

He noticed Tuck making his way over.

John nodded at Robin, and rejoined the others.

"Master Hood."

"Robin."

"Robin," Tuck corrected, "might I have a word?"

"Please. Sit." He gestured toward his bunk as he folded his arms and remained standing.

"Thank you." Tuck lifted himself onto the bed, ironing out his habit with his hands.

"I'd like to stay." He looked up at Robin. "I admire what you stand for and would like to help. Now," he continued, raising his hand as he noticed Robin was about to interrupt, "I might not be what you call…outlaw material, but I believe I _can _contribute to this little enterprise of yours."

"Everyone here has had to prove themselves. Many times over." Robin checked for any change in the friar's expression.

"I understand," Tuck replied, unperturbed by Robin's penetrating gaze.

"Alright then. Let's give this a try."

The two men shook on their tentative agreement.

----------------------

"I need to go." Allan grabbed his sword, and marched off without any further explanation, leaving Much and John in the midst of discussing who would go hunting that afternoon.

"Where is he off to?" Robin asked, as he and Tuck joined the others.

Much raised an eyebrow. "He's run off to join a monastery."

"Right." Robin looked at Tuck, who shrugged.

"Worked for me," he quipped.

"We need to go check on Locksley village," Robin said, "we have been neglecting the people for far too long. I think we had best start up our weekly drops again."

"Oh, thank God!" Much exclaimed.

"Drops?" Tuck asked.

"Food," John explained.

"Ah."

"Yes, well. That would be fantastic, if we had any food to _drop_," Much complained.

"To Nottingham?" John offered.

"To Nottingham," Robin nodded.

"I'll go get Anne," Tuck added, as he walked off.

Robin, John and Much exchanged a hesitant glance.

------------------------

He found her digging through the contents of the wagon.

"Come," Tuck said, grabbing Anne's hand unceremoniously and pulling her back towards the camp.

"But…I…"

"Come," he repeated, sternly.

As they rejoined the others Tuck noticed the gang's uncomfortable silence; John examining his staff, Much gathering up his sword and a small sack, which he slung over his shoulder.

"Much."

"What? I think I've got everything. Let's go."

"You stay here with the girl."

"Excuse me?"

"You're staying here with Anne. You can help her settle in…organise supper."

Noting the indignation on both their faces, he added: "I'm sorry. It is too much of a risk. John and I will take the friar to Nottingham. You stay here."

Anne looked questioningly at her friend, who shrugged.

"Back before you know it," he whispered as he leant in and quickly kissed her on the cheek. She pushed him off, glaring.

Much huffed, unclasped his sword and threw it to the ground. "Fine!"

"Alright," Robin ignored Much's vexation, "let's go."

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	5. To Nottingham!

Once again: I do not own Robin Hood, or any of the characters in this story aside from Anne, Emma and my version of Tuck, the BBC does...

Let me just thank Brazeau for her review. I also love Little John, although I had to leave him largely out of this chapter...

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**Chapter 5**

**To Nottingham!**

Robin shrunk back under his hood as they passed through the city gates; his appearance unremarkable enough to allow him to move largely unnoticed through the busy streets around the outer walls which surrounded Nottingham.

John, his appearance not being so easily masked, stayed behind.

"Robin!"

A stout, bald man in a leather apron raced out of his smithy.

"Thank the Lord! We were so glad to hear of your safe return!" He shook Robin's shoulders enthusiastically. "We were all so sorry to hear-"

"Thank you Matthew," Robin intercepted, "we are glad to be back. I'm afraid I do not have much time. Tell your wife we will be starting our deliveries again soon, the usual place, the usual time."

He spoke in a low voice, not wanting to attract any more attention to himself.

The short man nodded conspiratorially. "Thank you," he whispered, squeezing Robin's shoulders as he scurried back into the smithy, glancing around rather conspicuously as he tried hard to hide his excitement.

"Come," Robin whispered to Tuck, who had stubbornly refused to don a more discrete wardrobe for their reconnaissance mission. He stood tall and wide in his robes, his well-fed demeanour in stark contrast to the sallow, troubled faces hurrying through the streets around him.

Robin had given him a brief outline of the events in Palestine on the trek to the city. He got the feeling there was a major part of the story the Lord of Sherwood had left out, not in the least due to the fact that John, whilst remaining largely silent, had glanced nervously over his shoulder every so often, as Robin recounted the voyage to the Holy Land, and the outlaws' encounter with King Richard.

He'd noticed Robin becoming more vocal as he spoke of Sheriff Vaysey and Sir Guy of Gisborne, suspecting the omitted details had something to do with this dynamic-duo.

As they turned a corner, Tuck noticed the gallows in the middle of the square. A hooded figure swayed lightly back and forth in the winter breeze. It had been raining, and over the muddy square a rancid smell wafted toward the pair.

"What the-?" Tuck exclaimed. "They're just going to leave him hanging there?" His rough voice shrill with indignation.

"Keep your voice down," Robin chided, "that is the Sheriff's idea of setting an example," he said, pointing at the strung-up body. He bit his lip and frowned, glancing round to see most of the townsfolk going about their business, ignoring the indisputable sword of Damocles swinging from a fraying rope in their midst.

"This is preposterous!" Tuck managed, his deep voice not quite living up to Robin's idea of a whisper, "I have never, _never _witnessed anything quite so incredulous. Even in Whitby, where hangings were not exactly an exception to the rule, they were quick. That man…he's been there for a while…" he added, as he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve, in a futile attempt to keep the stench at bay.

"The Sheriff does not like things quick and easy," Robin said. "Come on, there's someone I need to talk to." He placed his hand on Tuck's back, ushering him away from the scene, down one of the crooked alleys which led away from the square.

"Preposterous," Tuck mumbled.

Robin noticed his cheeks had flared slightly redder than usual, and his button eyes glistened.

They made their way through the back door of a tiny butcher's shop, hidden in a corner of the muddy alley. It groaned as Robin pushed it open.

"Do you always do that?" He queried, as he closed the door behind them and looked at Tucks ankles; he'd hitched up his habit to keep the hem from getting too filthy. Tuck knew Anne wouldn't let him walk around in dirty clothing, and he wanted to spare her the trouble of coaxing him out of his robes, and feeling obligated to wash them for him.

"Habit," he explained.

Robin smiled at the pun, intended or not.

"Right."

"Who goes there? Away with you or I'll have your bullocks roasting on a spit for supper!" A voice bellowed from the front of the store, its owner poking a three-pronged pitchfork around the door frame as he added, "I'll have you strung up on the square, swinging like a wind-chime, if you dare take anything!"

Robin held his index finger up to his lips, shushing Tuck who looked as though he was about to respond in kind to the tirade coming from a few feet away.

"Owen, put the pitchfork down. What would we steal from back here anyways?" He looked round the room, picking up a gnawed-off bone and discarding it quickly. "Much would have your head for keeping your store so badly stocked!"

Silence.

Then a shuffle of feet as the pitchfork receded into the darkness beyond.

"Robin…?"

"Owen." He folded his arms and smiled chidingly as the large man appeared around the door frame.

"Robin!" He crossed the room in two large strides and shook Robin's hand enthusiastically as an impressive grin spread across his cheeks. He sighed, not being able to hide his delight.

"And who's that then?" He finally turned his attention to Tuck, who'd stayed well back at the sight of the impressive fellow, splattered in blood, which he prayed belonged to some kind of farm-animal, emerging from the shadows.

"This, my friend, is Tuck. He will be staying with us…for a while. Do not worry, he is not here to take your confession," he added, as he watched the butcher's expression change from delight to suspicion, taking in the stranger's dress.

"Listen, we do not have much time. Matthew spotted me earlier, and knowing him, word of my reappearance is spreading like wildfire as we speak. We need your help. Tell me, what has the Sheriff been up to, has he got anything planned that you know of?" Robin spoke quickly.

The big man nodded, understanding the urgency of the situation. "I've been delivering nothing but the finest cuts to the castle over the past fortnight. The Sheriff ain't sparing any expense. Dunno whether he's entertaining any special guest, or whether he's just gotten it in his head that he deserves nothing but the finest."

"He was never one to skimp on expenses, especially not his own. Has there been any sign that he is holding someone at the castle? Any rumours?"

"There's those who say he's entertaining someone high up on the Black Knight ladder…then again, there's folk who say he's finally found himself a wife, and he's just waiting for the right time to present her, and announce his wedding. Gisborne's been seen riding out to Locksley almost daily. No one's really sure what he's up to, although he's been keeping to himself a lot more lately. You know, you won't believe me, but he hasn't been hounding us so much lately…it's mostly the Sheriff's men…perhaps they had a falling out..." Owens voice trailed off as he speculated as to why things had been stranger than usual as of late.

"So the Sheriff definitely has a guest…," Robin surmised, "and it almost sounds as though Gisborne has a sincere disliking for this guest. Making himself scarce, keeping out of the Sheriff's way?"

"You need to be sure though, don't you?" Tuck asked. "You don't seem like the kind of man to rely on speculation and, no offence," he added to the butcher, "the tired rumours spread by butchers, bakers, blacksmiths and what have you?"

Robin looked up at Tuck as he pulled his hands through his hair, not wanting Owen to see that he agreed with the friar; Nottingham was a hotbed of speculation.

"What do you propose?" He asked.

"I propose a clerical errand. A missionary mission, a holy house call, a-"

"Alright."

Tuck cleared his throat. "Sorry. I propose to go and introduce myself to the Sheriff."

"You're just going to waltz into the castle and expect the Sheriff to see you, tell you who he's keeping _and_ what he's plotting?"

"Yes. I can be very persuasive." Tuck folded his arms and put on a mask of calm composure.

"I think this Sheriff and I will get along marvellously!"

He grinned as he peered of the butcher's shoulder into the front of the shop where an exceptionally fine piece of lamb lay racked out on the counter.

"You have a plan?" Robin asked, noticing the friar's expression.

"I have a plan."

"You are quite sure it is not _half _a plan?"

"Quite sure. Quite whole. Quite a stroke of genius if I do say so myself."

"Well then, let's have it," Robin sighed, his hesitation when it came to self-proclaimed brilliant plans unmistakable.

----------------------------------------

After John and Robin had left with the Friar in their wake, Anne had quickly disappeared. Much assumed she had gone to sort through her belongings.

He did not take any notice of her disappearance until he'd recovered from the initial shock of having been left behind, again, to see to the wifely duties.

"Den-mother," he mumbled to himself as he was finishing clearing up the dishes, "where does he come off…?!"

The plate hit the ground with a clang as it struck a protruding rock and rolled off under John's bunk.

"Anne?" he called, hesitantly at first, and then louder, "Anne?"

The realisation that he hadn't seen her since the rest of the gang had left hit him like a punch in the gut.

"Aw no," he talked to an imaginary Anne as he made his way through the trees; "you have not just gone and told the Sheriff where our camp is, have you? If you have, I swear! I am supposed to be keeping an eye out, you know. Robin is expecting me to make sure you do not run off and do something stupid!" The last sentence he added in a high-pitched yell, becoming more and more certain that his Master's trust in him would prove misplaced.

"Stupid? Like run off and rat you out to this Sheriff you are all so obsessed with?"

He spun 'round.

"Is that really what you expect? You honestly thought I'd run off to tell the Sheriff of Nottingham where to find his precious band of outlaws?" She walked toward him, her expression betraying disappointment rather than the anger Much had expected.

He fidgeted with a loose piece of wool which hung from the sleeve of his sweater. "Thank the Lord!" he exclaimed, bombastically. "Thought we'd lost you there," he joked, as he patted her arm and gave her an insincere smile.

"You did," she replied stoically. Her intonation masking whether it was a question, or a statement.

He wrinkled his eyebrows. "I did what? Lose you?"

"It doesn't matter," she replied.

He noticed she was carrying a brown leather sack, and had changed into a pair of trousers and a green tunic.

"Aren't you cold?" he tried to change the direction their conversation had taken to something more agreeable.

She sniffed; he noticed her cheeks and nose were pink from the sting of the wind.

"I had one good winter cloak, which, unfortunately, we had to barter for horse-feed and lodging at Nettlestone Inn last week."

She pulled her sleeves down over her hands as far as she could as she crouched down to rummage through the sack, producing a pair of soft, red leather gloves.

Nicely made, Much noted.

"Well, that's something, at least," she muttered as she retied the bag and put on the gloves.

"Let's go see of we can find you something to pull on over that tunic," Much offered, "It gets far too cold out here, especially at night."

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"Delivery for the Sheriff!" Tuck bellowed, as he pulled the cart to a halt at the castle portcullis.

Two weary looking soldiers traipsed over; one approached the friar, while the other pulled back the tarp covering the back of the wagon.

"Who are you?" the first ordered.

"I'm the man delivering the Sheriff's food. Lets see, wine, ale, rack of lamb, loin of beef, three chickens…with giblets…a pheasant, no wait, two. Eggs, ham, app-"

"Alright!" The second man covered to food back up, having grabbed an apple for himself.

"Take it round back, the kitchen staff will help you unload. We want you back out these gates within the hour, and do not even think about wandering off. Any unauthorised entry into the castle will result in instant arrest."

"Back in a wink," Tuck smiled "Here, have this, there's plenty." He pulled a casket of wine from under his seat, which the soldiers readily accepted, heading back to their post where a third member of their party seemed delighted by the fact they'd gotten something to help the afternoon pass a little more quickly.

The portcullis drew open, and Tuck spurred the worn-out horse past the gates, round the side of the building.

Having tried as they might, they hadn't been able to fit Robin into one of the grain barrels, so Tuck found himself alone in the dragon's lair. Robin had not been pleased, worriedly looking the portly man up and down, handing him a small dagger just before he'd clambered onto the front seat of the cart. "Stick this in your boot. Just in case."

Tuck hummed as he lifted himself off the wagon, and made his way over to a short, black-haired girl who smelled faintly of fish, and was busy throwing out last night's leftovers, or so he assumed.

"Hello there!"

The girl jerked her head 'round, dropping half the contents of the bucket she was carrying over her apron.

The smell didn't improve.

Realising she wasn't going to say anything, Tuck continued: "I have a delivery for the Sheriff. Food, tonight's supper I'm guessing," he smiled, trying to put her at ease. She stood frozen, brown slop dripping down her dress.

"Over there," she pointed in the direction of a small door behind her, "that's the kitchen, you can ask someone there to help you unload everything." Her initial fright turned into annoyance as she noticed the mess, she plopped down the bucket and started cleaning the front of her dress with her sleeve.

After a quick 'thank you', Tuck passed her, and found two young boys scrubbing the floor in the kitchen. A big woman, who stood sweating behind the stove, turned as she noticed him enter.

"You two," the lads looked up, "go unload the cart." They dropped their brushes and scurried past Tuck who remained in the doorway.

The woman turned back to her cooking. Two large pots balanced atop the stove. Smelled like some kind of stew.

"Are…are you," he cleared his throat and started again, "is your name Grace by any chance?"

He barely recognised her, her figure rounder than he remembered, her face tired, red with the exertion of spending all her time behind the firing stove. Her hair-colour gave her away. Under the scrap of yellow cloth she had tied round her head, he could still distinguish a wisp of red.

"One and the same," she replied casually, in a hoarse voice, "what's it to _you_?" She hadn't turned around.

"Nothing, nothing." He decided not to pursue the matter, recalling the more important task at hand.

He longed to reveal himself, accept an offering of wine and some pickings off the Sheriff's dinner, and spend the rest of the afternoon reminiscing with her at the kitchen table. Her lips had always turned a fiery red when she drank red wine.

--------------------------

Aware he was being followed, and unaware of Robin's whereabouts, Tuck ducked into the nearest tavern. He assumed that's what would be expected of a simple deliveryman, having just been paid.

The smell of ale mixed with the smoke from the fire, a whole pig roasting on a spit over the flames, greeted him with familiarity.

_Make use of an opportunity when it presents itself. _The words of the Abbott of Fountains echoed in his head, although he was sure the Abbott hadn't had quite this particular situation in mind.

"Oi!" A man called to him from one of the tables hidden in the back corner of the tavern. He couldn't make out a face.

"Not being funny, right, but this is a tavern, and you're a priest."

"Monk," Tuck corrected, realising he had run into Allan.

"Well, whatever you are, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be in 'ere."

Tuck made his way over to the table, and slid onto the bench across from Allan.

"I'm being followed," he grumbled.

"What? Sheriff's men?" Allan replied. An empty pitcher stood next to his elbow.

"Well, yes," the friar responded, "you seem like the kind of man who'd know a way out of this predicament…"

Allan grinned. "I _do _like you," he replied.

The door burst open, two of the Sheriff's guards pushing their way past the drunken villager who was trying to make his way out.

"Time to go." Allan got up and tugged Tuck's sleeve as he headed toward the back of the tavern.

"Oi. Come on then!" He snarled.

* * *

The next chapter will be a look at Tuck's encounter with the Sheriff and Gisborne, (their version of the story)... 

Let me know your thoughts...


	6. In and Out

First off; a big thank you to CosmicOasis for the kind words of support :)

Now, let me just apologise for the shortness of this chapter...I'm doing a bit of research on Richard's return to England, and it's been taking over my writing the past couple of days...**

* * *

**

**Chapter 6 **

**In and Out**

"Gisborne!" the Sheriff hollered from the strong room, as he paced back and forth, toying with his gold tooth.

"Gisborne!"

No response.

"You had bloody well be in here in five, four, three-"

The door swung open, hitting the wall and slamming shut again in one movement as Gisborne strode in.

"Monks, Gisborne? Monks? We're finally rid of the lepers, and now…monks?!" he hissed.

"My Lord I-"

"Shu-hush…"

Popping his tooth back into place he folded his hands behind his back and moved to stand disturbingly close to his second in command, peering up at him, as Gisborne tried to look anywhere but at the accusatory face in front of him.

"Aw, still a little sad, are we?" The Sheriff pinched his cheek, at which Gisborne slapped his hand away. "Cheer up, I've got a little job for you, take your mind off things, hm?"

"What?"

"The fat one, he's with Robin Hood. Have him followed, hm?"

"Who-?"

"Off you go. Fat, red-faced, wearing a habit, won't have gotten far. Go!"

"Yes, my Lord." Gisborne turned to leave. As he reached for the door handle, he paused.

"You're not leaving," the Sheriff hummed in a singsong voice.

"Our…," Gisborne swallowed, "guest…?"

"Yes?"

"Will he be…staying?"

"Ye-hes," the Sheriff responded.

Gisborne pushed the door open. "Guards!" he yelled, as he legged it down the corridor.

------------------------------

He sent the two guards stationed outside the Sheriff's quarters in pursuit of the mystery monk the Sheriff had been speaking to.

He stopped in his tracks as he noticed a girl in a green shawl scurrying down the hallway.

"You!" he bellowed.

The slight girl spun round, dropping the laundry basket she had been carrying.

"S…Sir Guy," she stuttered. He strode towards her, pulling off one of his gloves as he made his way over.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, as he tugged at the scarf wrapped around her shoulders.

She flushed red, not knowing how to explain.

"Where?!" he demanded.

"We…we…we were ordered to clear out Lady Marian's room. The Sheriff, he said…he…" She was unable to finish the sentence, as he wrapped his fingers more tightly around the cloth, pulling her face toward him.

She noticed his breathing quicken. His clenched teeth betraying the emotion he refused to show in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, ducking out of the shawl and leaving it dangling in his hand as she disappeared 'round a corner after a quick curtsy.

He stared blankly at the basket she'd left in the middle of the corridor. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the smooth fabric between his fingers.

He hadn't allowed himself any tears. Not in Palestine. Not on the long journey back. Not as he'd thrown off his cloak, walking back into Locksley Manor upon returning to Nottingham.

Even alone in his bed, at night, when his body trembled, and he lay staring at the ceiling, he refused.

He forced open his hand, dropping the shawl, and kicked the basket to the far end of the hallway.

--------------------------

"We have received word of a truce."

The Sheriff spun round, bowing deeply as he peered into a darkened corner of the room.

The slight figure, swathed in red velvet stepped forward into the light. The Sheriff did not right himself. His apparent superior produced a roll of parchment from his tunic, and held it out to him.

The seal had been broken, the paper fraying at the edges.

"On this day, the second of September in the Year of our Lord 1192, I, Richard the First, King of England, blah de blah de blah…"

He looked up.

"No!"

"Oh yes Vaysey. Definitely Yes."

"Three year truce? He, he…"

The paper trembled in his hands.

"I do not recall ever seeing you at such a loss for words," the Sheriff's guest sighed. "He is on his way back."

"Where?" the Sheriff croaked, panic clenching his throat shut.

"Austria."

"Leopold?"

"In pursuit as we speak," the man added, pulling off his gloves and snatching the scroll back from the Sheriff. He placed it on the table next to him, kicking a chair out of the way, as he gripped the wood with his hands.

The man chuckled. "He is travelling in disguise. A pilgrim."

He turned to face the cowering man behind him.

"Now, more than ever, I cannot have Robin of Locksley sowing hope in the minds of the wretched populace!" His gloves hit the Sheriff square across the cheek.

"He will be dealt with, Your Highness. I swear, he-"

"Enough!" John, prince, brother to King Richard, and self-proclaimed heir to the throne of England, lunged at his confidant.

"You have made this promise, repeatedly, and what have you to show for yourself?"

"Your Highness, I…"

"_I_ will deal with Locksley."

----------------------------------------

"I'm not being funny right, but I would suggest you run a little faster!" Allan bellowed over his shoulder, in between breaths as he and the friar bounded through the back alleys of Nottingham.

"You are…being…funny…" Tuck managed, his face red and dripping with sweat as he paused for a moment to cling on to a wooden post.

"Nah, nah. No stopping! Come on!" Allan pleaded as he ran back, grabbing a handful of the friar's habit and pulling him forward.

With his free hand he toppled over the contents of two of the market stalls they passed as he dragged Tuck towards the main gate.

"Oi, you two!"

Allan panicked as he watched three guards step in between him and the road leading out of the city.

He drew Tuck to a halt, who seemed relieved they had stopped moving.

That was when he heard Allan draw his sword, and looked up.

"Wha-?"

"You'd better tell me your skills extend beyond drinking and wordplay brother!" he exclaimed, as he tossed Tuck a second sword he'd had strapped to his back.

Tuck caught the sword, but dropped it to the ground almost immediately.

"Gentlemen!" He held out his hands in an attempted show of goodwill. Moving past Allan to stand between him and the approaching guards.

"You-," Allan sighed, "Get behind me!"

Tuck glanced back and winked.

"Gentlemen, please. This fine fellow has repented his sins." He gestured towards Allan. "If you'll just let us pass, we'll be on our way and out of your hair. I'm sure three God-fearing men such as yourselves wouldn't want to be linked to the murder of a clergyman…?" He smiled, noticing the soldiers slowing their approach.

Allan lowered his sword, slightly. He looked behind him, wondering where their other two pursuers had gone. They'd been close on their heels.

With a clang, one of the soldiers hit the ground.

Tuck's eyes widened as he saw John swing for the second.

"Run!" Allan yelled.

The second soldier spun 'round to face his attacker, but was too slow to parry the blow John dealt with his staff.

Tuck stood nailed to the ground for a second before he noticed the opening in between John and the third man.

He lunged forward, following Allan who was already out the gate.

"Bless you, my child!" he exclaimed, as he punched the last man across the jaw in passing, dropping him to his knees.

"Go!" John bellowed.

The friar hitched up his dress and ran off after Allan. He glanced over his shoulder to see Robin joining John in the gateway, tucking a piece of parchment into his tunic.

"We have what we came for," Robin said to John, "now I think it is time we made ourselves scarce!"

The two men set off in pursuit of Tuck and Allan, who had already made it quite a ways toward the edge of the forest when they caught up with them.

Allan skidded to a halt, and caught Tuck who was still mid-run, as he heard John and Robin approaching.

"We split up," Robin said between breaths. "You two, head off to the north, we will meet back at camp. John and I will lead them east."

Allan rolled his eyes. "Great." He grabbed hold of Tuck's habit again, "This is going to get real old, real quick," he mumbled, as he pulled the friar into the forest.

"Can't help it…" Tuck breathed, "not…very…fast…"

"You're joking!"

Allan watched John and Robin head off to their right as he heard the clamour of metal and the intermittent barking of the Sheriffs hounds draw nearer.

"Just keep moving, aright?"

Tuck patted him on the back. "You're a good lad," he mumbled.

Allan snorted. "You don't know who you're talking to. Come on."

* * *

One question; could someone please put me out of my misery and tell me whether it's Vaysey or Vaisey (Vasey?). I can't find the official spelling anywhere...:( 

Hope to update soon with more Prince John, why Gisborne is avoiding him, what Robin is up to with the scroll, how Much and Anne are doing back at camp, and how (if?) Tuck and Allan make their way home...

Let me know what you think :)


	7. Pairing Off

Thank you all for reading! I just hope I haven't turned into someone writing purely for my own pleasure...Well, not that that would be _such_ a disaster, just give me a shout if there's anyone still enjoying this (and perhaps anything you'd like to see)...:)

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**Pairing Off**

"Much!" Robin called, as he and John trotted into camp. "Much!"

No response.

"John, check the wagon, perhaps they're there. Allan should have been back by now," he groaned, "we led the guards round twice, which should have given them plenty of time, even _with_ the friar tagging along."

John dropped his staff, and went in search of Anne and Much.

Robin produced the roll of parchment from his tunic, and unfolded it. The words 'truce' and 'return' jumped off the page. It was damned near impossible to imagine King Richard on his way back.

He thought back to the time when Gisborne had been about to marry Marian. She had been foolish enough to think that relieving him of his fortune in the guise of the Nightwatchman could have prevented him from going through with the marriage.

That was the first time he had lost her. He crumpled the paper in his right hand. The day she had risen from the dead.

_Stop it. Stop it! It is not possible. She is dead. No trickery will return her to you. _

His mind conjured up images of her riding into Sherwood with Will and Djaq, part of Richard's entourage.

_Stop it._

He relegated the memories of Marian to the back of his mind.

_Focus. The King is returning to England. _

He was distrustful of the news, even though it had been meant for one of Richard's greatest enemies; they had been fooled once before.

It had been difficult to contain the urge to shout out when he had noticed the second figure in the Sheriff's quarters. He'd seen John only once before; a hunting party had passed through Locksley when Robin was still a boy. Richard had been there, as had his brother. He had seen them only in passing, but had noticed the stark differences between Richard and John; the one blond and broad-shouldered, the other dark and slight. He'd marvelled at the fact that they were brothers at all.

He _must_ be coming home. No one would dare give Prince John false information about his brother's return.

"Robin!" John interrupted his musings. He turned to face the big man, and was preparing to give the gang the news when he noticed John was alone.

"John…?" Concern crept into his voice.

"The wagon is empty. I found two pairs of footprints leading off into the woods, deep, as though they were carrying something heavy. I followed them for a ways, but the ground's too dry to be able to track them properly."

"Just the two?"

"Just the two. No soldiers."

"Allan and Tuck?"

"No sign. Should've been back by now, eh?"

"Yes."

John eyed the crumpled piece of parchment Robin had forgotten he was still clutching in his hand. His eyes posed the question, while his lips remained perfectly still, something Robin had come to expect from John.

"This?" he questioned, as he held up the scrap.

"Hm." John responded.

"My friend," he sighed, "the King is returning to England."

"Again?" John's voice doubtful.

"No. At last," Robin said, "at long last." He fidgeted with his ring as he paced the length of the camp, Much and Anne, Allan and Tuck, Prince John in Nottingham, Richard's return; he did not know where to begin.

John noticed his indecisiveness. "Much and Anne will be fine. Allan and Tuck," he chuckled, "most likely stopped over somewhere for a pint. What we need, is to know whether _that_," he pointed at Robin's hand, "is real."

Robin stopped his pacing and faced John, glad to let his friend's reasoning guide him. "You're right. We need to reach the King. If this is true, we need to let him know his brother will be awaiting his return."

"Prince John?"

"Ah, yes. You see, this letter was not exactly addressed to the Sheriff."

"Prince John," John repeated, "is here? In Nottingham?"

"At the castle, to be exact. In the Sheriff's quarters, to be even more exact."

---

"Enough!" Tuck exclaimed.

"What?" Annoyance played across Allan's face as he stopped in his tracks. "We need to keep moving."

"What we _need_ is a drink and a ride."

His irritation evaporated as he observed the big man, legs sprawled out on the damp ground, arms folded, pouting like a child. Allan grinned at the friar. "I think I know a place where we can get both. Up you get," he added, holding out his hand.

"Shouldn't we have reached the camp by now?"

"If you're the expert, you can find your way back on your own." Allan headed off again.

"I could swear we've been walking in circles."

"We have been. Mucks up their tracking."

"Ah, see. You could have simply told me that."

"Just did, didn't I?" Allan chuckled. He liked the big fellow. He didn't have to worry Tuck would respond with an annoyed retort about his 'momentary lapse of sanity', as Much liked to call his time as Guy's right hand man.

"Fair enough. Where are we going anyways? The camp is that way," Tuck pointed. He had caught up to Allan and was now walking next to him, the younger man making sure he controlled his pace.

"You _have _been paying attention. We are going to Locksley. I have a friend there."

"A friend with a ride?"

"And ale."

"Good man. Lead on!" He patted Allan on the back.

"Aye, aye brother."

---

Much and Anne peered around the corner of one of the cottages furthest from Bonchurch Manor, ready to disappear back into the forest at any sign of trouble.

"Who are we looking for, exactly?" Anne whispered, as Much scanned the townsfolk bustling back and forth between the Manor, the mill and several of the cottages. A hint of snow crackled through the air. Midwinter was drawing near.

He did not respond immediately, but continued scanning the faces.

"Much?" She waved her hand in front of his face. "What does she look like?"

"She…she…," he sighed, at a loss for words. Anne smiled as she peered over his shoulder, trying to guess who this Eve could be. He had been prattling non-stop about her on their way over.

"There!" His shoulder hit Anne in the chin as he got up, gesticulating wildly at a blonde woman in a green dress who was hurrying toward the Manor. She didn't notice him.

He spun round to find Anne on the ground, pressing her lip, as blood trickled through her fingers. He dropped the basket he had been clutching, kneeling beside her. His eyes flicked back to Eve, who disappeared into the Manor as he held out his hand to pull Anne's fingers from her face.

"It's fine," she grumbled, sucking on her bottom lip which had split open when Much's shoulder had collided with her face.

"I'm sorry. Really, extremely sorry," Much lamented, as he inspected the bruise. "Did you see her?" he added, leaning back against the wall of the cottage behind him, a wistful smile playing at his lips.

Anne couldn't be angry with him, not in this state. "I was a little preoccupied," she responded.

Much was drawn out of his daydream, and embarrassment, mixed with a little regret, rippled across his face.

Anne sighed. "Alright. We are here for a reason. Let's go see if we cannot gladden some hearts with these knickknacks." She got up, pressing her sleeve to her lip, and offered Much her free hand.

"You're right. I think we should circle round the outside of the houses, and try one of the back-entrances. We should _try_ not to attract too much attention."

---

"You will not accept on principle? Or simply stubborn pride?" Much asked the large woman who had opened the door to them first.

"Ain't got no need for 'em fine things. Got any food on yeh?"

"No. No, I'm afraid we haven't," Anne replied. "Are you sure you couldn't use some of these blankets?" she coaxed.

"Thank you. No thank you," and with that she slammed the door shut.

"Well," Much huffed, "really. The gratitude here in Bonchurch is truly astonishing!" He paced in front of the closed door. "May I remind you that I, _Lord_ Much, will be lord and mas-" a frighteningly cold hand clasped his mouth, drowning out his complaints.

"Shhh," Eve hissed. "What's all this ruckus? You'll draw the attention of the guards," she whispered. Her slim face bobbed over Much's shoulder as she sent a slight smile Anne's way. "Come on; let me get the two of you inside." She slowly removed her hand from Much's face, half expecting him to resume his tirade.

He turned to face her, trying hard not to let all the exhaustion and emotion of the past months spill into her arms.

"Come on," she whispered again. Drawing Much along by the hand, and gesturing Anne to follow. She led them around the back of the Manor, into the kitchen.

---

Allan had already swung one of his legs through the window when he heard Tuck clear his throat.

"Ahem."

"What?"

Tuck quirked an eyebrow and gestured at himself, as though he were a display. Allan reassessed the man's size and realised the front door would be a better option. "Right, round the front then," he muttered, hoping Emma had left her door unlocked as she usually did round this time of day, when she hauled the laundry back from the lines outside the Manor. He wasn't disappointed. They found her in the kitchen folding sheets, her son perched on a stool in the corner, cleaning sprouts.

She looked up when she heard the door, unfazed by Allan's sudden appearance. Her expression changed when she noticed the large man behind him, waving at the little boy from over Allan's shoulder. She and Allan stood frozen, only the little boy continued chopping the ends off the sprouts, and Tuck moved forward to offer the lady of the house an outstretched hand.

"Pleasure to meet you ma'am. Tuck. I'm a…a friend of Allan's," he added, unsure of the protocol regarding their connection to Robin Hood and his gang.

Emma gently laid down the folded sheet she'd been holding, and tucked some of the curls which had escaped her plait back in. She smoothed her apron and took Tuck's hand. "Emma. Pleasure to meet you." She nodded solemnly as she spoke, and peered over Tuck's shoulder at Allan, who was, in turn, staring at the laborious little boy in the corner of the room. He avoided Allan's gaze, which Allan was grateful for, considering the last time they had met.

"Shall I fetch some ale?" she asked, gesturing toward the back door which Tuck assumed led to some sort of pantry round back.

"Well, that would be most attentive. If it's not too much trouble that is, we wouldn't want to put you out," Tuck added.

"No trouble. Please, sit. I'll be right back." She looked at Allan as she spoke. His eyes slowly peeled away from the boy, and he added "I'll give you a hand," as he followed her out the door, setting his sword down against the door-frame.

"Well, that was awkward," Tuck quipped as he rearranged his habit after plonking down on one of the rickety wooden chairs at the table.

The boy looked up. Tuck grinned at him cheerily, wondering how he could sit there working so industriously when there were forts to be built, and pigtails to be pulled.

"You enjoy helping your mother?"

The boy shrugged, continuing his work; he was almost through the entire pile.

"What do you do with the leftover bits? Feed them to the goats?"

"We have sheep," the boy mumbled.

"Ah! Sheep are much better. I have never been quite partial to goat myself. They do not make very comfortable jumpers, and their bleating used to keep me up at night when _I_ was little. The little buggers would find my bedroom window, and just hover there all night. You know, the only thing that worked, was tossing my dirty socks out the window. I'd stuff them with apples, and sling them out as far as I could. They'd go hobbling after them," he peered at the boy from the corner of his eye, and noticed a twitch of the lips. He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "I always wondered whether it was the smell of my socks, or of the apple that tempted them. Being a religious man, of course, I was inclined toward the apple." The boy grinned as he looked up into the pink face in front of him. Tuck winked, just as Allan and Emma came back in. The boy immediately pulled a straight face, the sparkle in his blue eyes betraying his delight.

---

At Bonchurch Manor Much was still a bit flabbergasted by the fact that he was holding Eve's hand, or rather, she was holding his, and not letting go.

"Are we safe here?" Anne asked. She felt she had to, not yet familiar with the manner in which the locals of the villages surrounding Nottingham dealt with visits from Robin Hood and his men.

It would be a long time before she would be completely comfortable here, she mused.

_Why am I even thinking of staying? Just yesterday, I was angry about Tuck assuming I wanted to... _

"The soldiers come when they please and patrol the town. Only rarely do they resort to house calls, but with your yelling and all…" she smiled at Much.

"What?"

Her smile intensified.

"My name is Eve." She pried her hand loose, and extended it to Anne.

"Anne. Nice to meet you."

"What exactly brings the two of you here?" she enquired. "Much?" He didn't respond, except with a blank stare. Eve looked at Anne who shrugged. "Much?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you here?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, you see, we have been joined by Anne here," he absentmindedly gestured to her, "and the friar. Tuck. They will be staying with us, in the forest, and Anne suggested we might put some of her belongings to good use. They came with a wagon full of things, you see, and-"

"We're here to see if anyone is in need of some blankets or clothing," Anne interrupted. The women exchanged a glance, both wanting to avoid any excessive rambling on Much's part.

"If you leave what you have, I'll see to it that everything finds a home," Eve said, reaching out to take the basket Anne had been carrying. "Let me fetch a damp cloth for that bruise," she added.

"Thank you."

Much and Anne were left standing in the kitchen.

"So _that _is Eve?" Anne asked, as Much gazed after her.

"Yes," he sighed.

"She's very beautiful."

"Yes. Yes she is."

Anne didn't quite know what to do with herself. On the one hand, she wished she could leave the two of them alone, as there was obviously a lot left unsaid in her presence, on the other, she did not think she could find her way back to camp, and she was afraid of attempting it on her own.

"We shouldn't stay for too long," she stated. This startled Much.

"No. No, you are right. We should go." He moved toward the door.

"Perhaps we should wait until she's back?" Anne was surprised by Much's abrupt decision to leave.

"No. No, we should go now," he seemed suddenly worried, and grabbed Anne's hand, pulling her away from the manor.

Eve returned to find the kitchen empty. She ran to the door but stopped herself from calling out after him. He would return, she was sure of it.

---

Emma set a casket of ale on the table, and moved to take the chopped vegetables from her son, whom she ushered out of the kitchen.

Allan sat down across from Tuck, and filled the two mugs he had brought in with him.

There was a brief, uncomfortable, silence as Tuck tried to assess what had passed between the two. Allan noticed his discomfort and intercepted before any potentially awkward questions could be asked.

"We need to borrow your horse. We can have it back to you tomorrow."

Emma turned around slowly. "I do not own a horse," she responded, an almost imperceptible bitterness tingeing her voice as she spoke.

Allan chuckled. "You had one last week," he retorted.

"Yes, well. If you had been paying any attention, you would have noticed that I sold the old nag not three days ago. The tax collector is coming tomorrow." She placed her hands on her hips and stared him down.

"What?"

"You heard me," she replied.

Tuck glanced from one to the other over the rim of his mug.

"Allan a Dale, at a loss for words?" she snorted, "You come dragging your friend in here, from God knows where, expecting me to just _give _you my horse, and you have absolutely nothing to say?" She ignored Tuck completely as she leaned in and added, "You share my bed, and you fail to notice that I am struggling to even keep my head above water?"

He was caught off-guard by her anger. One of the reasons he kept coming back was the usual ease of their unspoken agreement.

"I…I could get you the money you need." The first words that came to mind were the first out of his mouth. Quite often this worked for him, this time however, he realised a split-second too late that he should have kept his mouth shut.

"Pay me?" Her eyes turned cold as flushed a bright red. "_Pay_ me?" she hissed.

"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Out," she breathed, almost inaudibly.

Allan glanced at Tuck who had been eyeing the progression of events with growing trepidation. He drowned the last of his ale and wiped his lips with his sleeve. "I think we'd better leave," he said, as he got up.

Tuck was out the door and Allan hot on his heels when Emma grabbed his arm, digging her nails in. He turned to face her. All emotion had gone from her expression, and in a neutral tone she added, "Do not come back. You will not be welcome." She let go of his arm and he hesitated for a moment, wondering whether there was something he could say, something he _should _say. "Go," she whispered, and he headed off in pursuit of Tuck.

* * *

Next chapter: a midwinter extravaganza, and one of the gang volunteers to go intercept King Richard... 


End file.
